Winter Break at Hogwarts
by JazzMind
Summary: This is a Draco suicide-fic. A funny, _serious_ Draco suicide-fic; go figure. If you review me, I'll review you, I promise.
1. You May Die

Disclaimer: I am not JKR. I am a person that is writing fanfic. If I were JKR, would I be writing fanfic? Nooooo.  
  
A/N Draco is widely hated at Hogwarts. Universally hated?  
  
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Draco Malfoy was sitting in the empty Quidditch stands, panting. He had been chasing that dratted snitch around the field for upwards of an hour. Single practice was bloody annoying, but he did want to stay on the team. The sky was dull and gray, like it always is in England when there's a tourist within a hundred kilometers.  
  
Draco looked around and saw a figure, made small by distance, approaching across the muddy grass. *Oh, great, * he thought. *Dumbledore. *  
  
He would have flown away to avoid the conversation that he knew was coming, but he was the one who had asked. During his first year here, when he was discovered bleeding and half-dead in his bed, Dumbledore made him promise that he wouldn't do anything with out talking to Dumbledore about it first.  
  
It was amazing, he thought distantly, that that secret had never leaked out. Amazing that Dumbledore had not even told Lucius, Draco's father. Most of all, amazing that Dumbledore was actually coming to talk to him.  
  
Wanting to get it over with, he mounted his broomstick and flew to touch down next to the wet old man on the Quidditch field.  
  
*Might as well be civil, * he thought. *Not like I'll have to pretend much longer. *  
  
"Sir." He said. Nothing more; they both knew why they were being drizzled on. The difference between them was that if Draco caught pneumonia, it wouldn't matter; if Dumbledore did, the school would be concerned, instead of delighted.  
  
"Mr. Malfoy." Dumbledore was as dignified as if he was testifying in front of a court, warm and dry. "I hereby give you permission to do what you wish with your life."  
  
To put it mildly, Malfoy was . . . shocked. *What? What is he playing at? * He was stunned. Almost upset. *That damn bastard. _Giving_ me my life, like it was his to decide. Arrogant, stuck-up old man. *  
  
"-The one requirement-"  
  
*Don't you dare give me requirements. *  
  
"-being that-"  
  
*This should be good. *  
  
And this with a hint of wry humor, "-you do not do it on my floors."  
  
*Bloody bastard! He means it! *  
  
"Now, this is hardly a death sentence."  
  
*Oh, yeah? *  
  
"I know that you are not highly pleased with your life. However, it would be well advised of you to . . . Oh, pack your things. Unless you wish to leave it to your . . . (faint distaste) associates. "  
  
*Point. Crabbe and Goyle going through my things? There wouldn't be anything left when they finished. Bleech. *  
  
"A suicide note is traditional-."  
  
*And I am such a one for tradition, aren't I? *  
  
"Yeah. Whatever. Great." With that, Malfoy hopped onto his broom and sped away. *I better go tell Madame Pomfrey to get some cold medicine ready and catch him with it, or she'll kill me. *  
  
He had always been extraordinarily close with the herb-nurse; their friendship dated back to first time he had first tried to kill himself. She had told him a "bedtime story" about a small, ugly second-year girl who had tried to do the same thing and was barely saved.  
  
The point of the story was that it never works.  
  
He had gone to the library to check out a few incidentals he had caught from her story. That bloody book, Hogwarts, A History, turned out to be bloody useful, not that he would ever admit it. It turned out that Madame Pomfrey had been a second year at the only time that all of the details coincided. Minor things, like the stands had only seated two houses, instead of four, that that year the Ministry of Magic had had a renegade, and Dumbledore's beard was died blue. but overall, definite.  
  
Draco had almost laughed when he saw the name of the author of the book. He knew from his father that the man had been a high-ranked Death Eater. He wondered if prissy Granger knew that.  
  
"Ambush the Headmaster with cold medicine, Madame. It's damp out." That errand dispatched, he swooped back out into the hall.  
  
After him an outraged voice called, "No brooms in the corridors, you blooming disaster!"  
  
He chuckled. What language from a lady!  
  
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This is no place to end it. But hey, the next chapter is in the works. I hope you like it. 


	2. Bad Dobby

Harry thinking up inventive ways for Malfoy to die. Malfoy dies. Harry- angst is boring. Don't worry, this chapter is just a placeholder for the comedy/tragedy thing that comes next.  
  
Disclaimer: See the first page. Wait, did I update that yet? Well, anyway, if I'm writing a disclaimer, you can tell that I don't own any of the characters, (different author) not even Neelix. *Runs away crying*  
  
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Up in the Gryffindor tower common room, Harry and Ron were having fun. (A/N: *exasperatedly* no, not that kind of fun.)  
  
"Bloody hell, but I hate this board!" Ron glared at the wizard's chessboard he had just received for Christmas. "It keeps on giving me advice!"  
  
Harry grinned. "And it keeps on being right. Oh, bye, Hermione!"  
  
As she walked by, she snickered. "Maybe you should listen to the pieces, Ron."  
  
"Ah, shaddup."  
  
"See you after winter break!"  
  
"Ah, right, then." Ron was glaring ferociously at his pieces. "Move, you bloody bits of - of- *sigh. * Well, right on then, just hurry up."  
  
Harry smiles behind his hand. Hermione leans over the table, arguing with the pieces. "Oh, come on. _Listen_ to him, will you?" Amazingly, the piece obeyed.  
  
Ron looked in amazement at the board. "How did you do that?"  
  
Hermione smiled. "You just need to know how to handle them." She sticks her tongue out at the bishop, who is clenching tiny fists and shouting at her.  
  
"You want a piece of me? You want a piece of me? Come down here and fight like a chessman!" He squeaks.  
  
As the Fat Lady's portrait shuts behind her, Ron shakes his head. "Nah, probably not."  
  
"Probably not what, Ron?"  
  
"Ah, nothing. just that bloody Malfoy getting to me again."  
  
"Bloody Malfoy. I wish he'd fall off a tower."  
  
"_I_ wish he'd fall off a dragon."  
  
"Well, I wish he'd be eaten by one."  
  
"I wish he'd _become_ one."  
  
"A fate worse than death."  
  
"Really. For us, you mean."  
  
"Yeah, really. "  
  
"I wonder if we could poison him with Polyjuice potion?"  
  
"It's an idea. I wonder what would happen if he just keeled over and died in the Great hall. Do you think anyone would cheer?"  
  
"Do you think anyone would stay quiet?"  
  
"I wish Moody would declare him a vampire and kill him."  
  
"I wish Sirus would eat him."  
  
"Really, Ron! That's not a nice thing to wish, you know."  
  
Ron stared as if his friend had gone mad.  
  
"To wish to Sirus, I mean. Really, Ron." They had a good laugh all around and went to find some food.  
  
~*~  
  
Malfoy entered the Slythrin commonroom. As he looked around at the damp, perpetually cold stone walls, he thought, *This would be a good place to die. * Goyle looked up from where he was reading a Muggle Playgirl magazine. *Hmm. Maybe I should steal that. * Then it hit him. *Goyle reading? *  
  
"What's up, pizza-face?"  
  
"Ugh."  
  
Good. The world wasn't completely insane. *Wait a second. Did I just think that? * "What are you reading, you ugly idiot?"  
  
Goyle wasn't completely slow. "Pretty pictures."  
  
Malfoy clapped him on the shoulder as he passed. "Good Goyle." *Now to compose a suitably dramatic suicide note. *  
  
Entering his room, which he shared with Crabbe and Goyle, he looked around. His clothes were strewn across the stone fireplace that heated the dank room, across the obsidian carving of a basilisk in the far corner, and over his bed, which was made up in black and maroon silk sheets, suitably sinister. *Ever since that damned Granger started that SPEW thing, service has been horrible. Ugh. *  
  
Away in the tremendous, cheerfully cavernous kitchens under the dining hall, Dobby chattered happily away to the other house-elves as they looked at him through a one-way house elf magic vision portal. "Do you see? Do you see? Mister Draco is grumpy! This is fun!"  
  
Some of the house elves edged away, but Dobby reminded them that Dumbledore had put him in charge of the house-elves at the end of last year. More crowded closer and looked at the snarling face of their often-tormentor happily.  
  
In his chambers, Dumbledore sighed and looked through his paperwork. Oh, here was an interesting one, a complaint from young Mr. Malfoy about the house elves. Hmm.  
  
Seemingly to the empty air, Dumbledore spoke. "Dobby? I need to talk to you."  
  
Out of a vaguely Dobby-shaped blur in the air, a squeaky voice came. "Oh, sir, just a minute! Dobby asks you to wait just a minute so the cakes will not burn!"  
  
Dumbledore smiled through his long white beard. "Of course, Dobby. Take all the time you need."  
  
Dobby appeared in barely a second. "Sir? Is Dobby been bad? Oh, sir! Dobby has been bad! Dobby must be punished!" He began banging his head against the floor.  
  
Dumbledore sighed and leaned over his desk to peer at the crying house elf. "No, Dobby, you have not been bad. I just need to talk to you."  
  
After a final bang, Dobby said, "Oh, well. Dobby happy." He appeared on Dumbledore's desk, sitting on the uppermost stack of papers to peer into Dumbledore's face. "What does master wish of Dobby?"  
  
Dumbledore smiled at the little house elf. "I wish to know why Mr. Malfoy is upset."  
  
Dobby hurled himself off the table and began throwing himself against the floor, moaning. "Oh, Dobby has been bad! Dobby has been very bad. Oh!" *Thud. *  
  
In his room, Malfoy stared strangely at three bags full of crumpled clothes. He turned away and began searching for a pad of paper, his knife, and a quill.  
  
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Next chapter is coming with promised tragedies. It's short because I just want to get this posted and go back to my other universe for a while- I like it better there. 


	3. Wine Snowballs and A Potion

I've decided that this story will end with Draco succeeding in suicide . . . Either that chapter or the one after it will be the final one. This one is placeholder to chapter 4, where the little plot-type things I wanted in chapter two will finally form. Hopefully. You know, this is going to get very drawn out, very quickly.  
  
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Outside, Harry and Ron were coming back from visiting Hagrid. It was the middle of the afternoon. The shy was a light and depressing gray.  
  
"What do you want to do, Harry?"  
  
"Have a snowball fight. " Ron looks around. "That's bloody brilliant, but where're we going to get the snow?"  
  
"It's winter, we're wizards. We should be able to think of something." Harry waved his wand around aimlessly. "Remember the charm Flitwick taught us?"  
  
"Snickers something?"  
  
"I think it was . . . Snowballum Colrumi!"  
  
A large pile of colored snowballs appeared on the ground in front of him. Ron reached down, picked up a blue one, and sniffed it. "Cotton candy, I think." He bit it. "Excellent. I think you've invented a new charm, Harry."  
  
Harry stared at the pile of colored balls of snow a bit dispiritedly. "Maybe it was Plentori."  
  
Soon, there are piles and piles of strangely colored snowballs around. They have some interesting results, along the lines of Berrie Bott's Every flavor Beans. "Look! I got lime!"  
  
"Well, I got cinnamon!"  
  
"Butterbeer!"  
  
"Wine!"  
  
"Wine?"  
  
"Sure tastes like it. Sort of fruity."  
  
(A/N: No, I am not planning to get the school drunk on snowballs. Although it is an idea. Maybe later.)  
  
~*~  
  
Dumbledore decided to visit Severus.  
  
"Severus?"  
  
"What is it, Albus? I'm busy."  
  
"I need to talk to you." He looks at the poisonous-looking potion. It was roiling slowly, in a color like congealed blood, tinted violet. "A Draconium potion?"  
  
"To be reinforced with a Spell of Living."  
  
Dumbledore is worried. Does he have two suicidals on his hands?  
  
"Young Mr. Malfoy has not been in the best of health lately." The Draconium potion is incorrectly named, in that it gives one the (typically) strong will to live of a dragon, not the form.  
  
Dumbledore doesn't understand. "Health?"  
  
"He is . . . suicidal." Snape looks at him searchingly. "But you know that."  
  
"I do."  
  
"He also bloodlets."  
  
"Bloodlets."  
  
Snape demonstrates with an imaginary knife, drawing it across the inside of his forearm. "Some use it as a relaxant."  
  
This is no tremendous surprise to the headmaster . . . In Malfoy's first year here, when he had tried to die, there had already been many scars on his arms, where his robes would hide them.  
  
"Severus... what do you think the boy has to live for?"  
  
Snape reaches for a sharp, thin knife, and slices some nameless (thank god) chunk of a snot-colored sausage into thin slices, dropping them into the potion. They sizzle, steam, and melt. "Not very much, perhaps."  
  
Dumbledore is the epitome of calm rationality. He does not even believe in his own position, but Devil's Advocate is a favorite pastime of wizards. Even though, for some, it can get a little too literal. "Then why do you wish him to?"  
  
Snape is a reformed Death Eater. But, dammit, a _moral_ reformed Death Eater. "Life is precious."  
  
"And his father could wreck the school."  
  
Snape twitches a little bit. That is not at the top of his list of reasons, but if Hogwarts was closed, Snape would be out of a job, and highly unlikely to be trusted by anyone else in the wizarding community.  
  
Snape is tense with anger, hunched over the cauldron, stirring it in mechanical motions. "I take it that you have taken... action."  
  
*Yes, action, my friend... but quite definitely not the one that you would expect of me.* Dumbledore paces a few steps in each direction, his long beard swinging. "Do not be disappointed in me, my friend. I was coming to ask you for the very potion you brew."  
  
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Dumbledore wants Draco to learn something. Draco needs to learn how to want to live. It is a lesson that, when it must be learned, often comes at the price of a few scars, and those who don't catch the lesson at speed tend to hit the trees a'purpose, and with fatal consequences. 


	4. Accio Fluffness A Filler

My imagination is still in Middle Earth, but this _does_ need writing, if only to keep me away from my homework. :)  
  
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Carrying the potion in a flask, Dumbledore carefully tickled the pear leading to the kitchens.  
  
"Dobby?"  
  
Several house-elves came running, but none of them were Dobby. They crowded anxiously around him, impairing the headmaster's ability to move without risking stepping on one of them.  
  
"Dobby is..." A wince and a cower, "On vacation, sir."  
  
"Oh, oh! Dobby is on vacation, sir!" A second house-elf bumped his head weakly on the floor. His bloated stomach made him look like a small green beach ball.  
  
"Oh!" That was less a sound of dismay than a cry of pain. Another groaning house-elf staggered by. This one resembled a papaya more than a beach ball.  
  
*Perhaps something about the head.*  
  
Dumbledore was not one to retreat in confusion. But in that situation, _I'd_ go OOC.  
  
~*~  
  
In the Potions classroom, Professor Snape was taking points away from a combined class of Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors. Poor Nelville looked gratified to be not the only one in his situation. A boy sitting at a table near him sobbed quietly as his pet, which had presumably once been a toad, mooed weakly. Weakly and _pinkly._ If that's possible.  
  
Snape was no more enjoying the class than his students, albeit for different reasons.  
  
*Albus will not let Draco die.*  
  
Nelville sighed plaintively as his now-tadpole (_A_gain) flopped on the desk. Not knowing what else to do, he spat on it, trying to keep it alive until Hermione could produce a fishbowl.  
  
Ah. Now _here_ was a way to get rid of his frustrations.  
  
"Mr. LONGBOTTOM! You do not spit on your desk. Twenty points from Gryffindor for disrespect to school property!"  
  
Once the irate teacher was out of hearing distance, a coughing Ron whispered to Harry, "Character counts!"  
  
Harry stifled a laugh.  
  
~*~  
  
*Would he?*  
  
~*~  
  
Dumbledore gave up and waved his wand. "Accio Prozac." He wished dearly that the author would get to the angsty point that she is not in any hurry to get to.  
  
~*~  
  
Snape stared around at the chaos in the kitchens. Things were boiling over, others burning, others doing less identifiable things, but none of it looked good. He had never been comfortable in a kitchen.  
  
~*~  
  
dobby was having a _wonderful_ time. Dobby was sock-shopping. But then Dobby felt a very strange sensation. Magic! Someone was putting magic on Dobby!  
  
~*~  
  
Professor Snape had come up with an unorthodox solution. Dobby was missing. The kitchen was a mess. When Dobby was not missing, the kitchen was (Snape hoped) less of a mess.  
  
He was fairly sure that Albus would not have approved; but if he got the kitchens back to some semblance of sanity before (fast-approaching) dinnertime, Snape figured that the Headmaster wouldn't be too fussy about the method used.  
  
"Accio Dobby!"  
  
~*~  
  
House elves don't fly that much. Snape found that out. He also found out that sometimes house elves get airsick.  
  
*Oy.* Being thrown up on was _not_ a habit for the professor. At least not since his college days. *Sometimes I wonder whether beer, pretzels, and peanuts, mixed in quantity, makes a regurgitation potion.* Not that he was planning to brew any. But sometimes he wonders.  
  
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Snape. In college. Getting drunk. 


	5. Safe But Caught

I'm back, after a heck of a break. I'm confused and I feel a need to kill Draco.  
  
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In his room, Draco is sitting at an ornate table of some heavy, dark wood. A scroll of parchment, covered in fairly neat and very angsty writing is in front of him. The fireplace gutters again and suddenly Draco realizes that the vague feeling of discomfort in his stomach is hunger. He rises, stretching. The letter is safe here; he doubts that either of his roommates can read, and no one else would dare come up here.  
  
~*~  
  
Snape sat at the high table, sweating. Life must be preserved. Was the potion too late? Albus had said that Draco wouldn't do it tonight and had forbidden him to search for the boy. For two hours, he had jittered in Albus's office. It was against his nature to wait for an event. The good news was that the kitchens were back to some semblance of order. Winky was still cleaning his boots; he was wearing black socks with a glamour cast on them, and his feet were cold.  
  
Albus passed his colleague a platter of fudge and watched, amused, as the younger man began buttering his dinner roll with it.  
  
Draco's lateness to dinner didn't bother him at all. The boy was writing a long, ornate, and suitably biting suicide note. Idly, he wondered about the boy's admiration of his father. He had known Lucius for thirty years- he had changed the man's diapers, once. The man _was_ capable of inspiring admiration, but he was better at terror.  
  
Snape glared at the unconcerned headmaster. *Albus, if you are wrong, the repercussions...* He stood, determined to go find the boy and stuff that damned potion down his throat if it killed both of them. He stabbed the man with a glare. "Albus."  
  
The headmaster looked up. "Severus, do sit down. He's in the entrance hall now."  
  
Snape turned just in time to see Draco appear in the doorway. He sat. *How does he _do_ that?*  
  
~*~  
  
In the kitchens, Winky finished the boots. She sent them up with a gesture. Snape jerked slightly, then looked down at his feet with approval. The boots shone black, looking suitably evil. He just hoped she had not used some abominably scented shoe polish, like rose petals or lemon. Albus peeked under the table.  
  
"Severus, your boots look wonderful."  
  
He nodded distractedly, passed Minerva the butter, and looked for the first time at his rather oddly adorned roll. "What the hell?..." He bit off a piece and started chewing.  
  
~*~  
  
At the tables, the teacher's odd behavior was unnoticed. Draco took a sip of his soda. It tasted rather odd, not at all fizzy. He wouldn't put it past the house elves to poison him, actually. A rolling sensation, like flying with wings, filled his head, and suddenly he felt immensely better. *Maybe it's mead.* One could hope- maybe the house elves had finally made a mistake. He drained the glass and refilled it from the same pitcher, suddenly thirsty. This time it was just soda, but it still tasted good. As the weak Obliviate that Snape had worked for hours to put into the mix took effect, he forgot that he had ever tasted anything unusual, and began eating like a teenaged boy, instead of a convicted criminal.  
  
~*~  
  
At the Head table, Dumbledore gave a sigh and many muscles in his aged shoulders untended. Minerva leaned across the table worriedly. "Albus?"  
  
Snape cracked a smile that looked no less evil for being genuine, but still was wider than Minerva could recall ever seeing on his gloomy countenance. Quietly, but with emphasis, he muttered, "It worked."  
  
Albus smiled. "Did you ever doubt it?"  
  
"Of course not. Still, it is good to see the boy alive."  
  
The very confused Transmogrification Professor looked between the two men. "What in hell are you two talking about?"  
  
The headmaster smiled at her. "My dear Minerva. Could you please pass the salt?"  
  
She resolved to drag it out of him later and passed him the pepper instead. He sprinkled a large amount on a potato. She stifled a smile, knowing that the students might faint if they saw it.  
  
~*~  
  
Dinner was over, and Draco Malfoy just wanted to go to sleep. On his way through the common room, he saw his books and was reminded of the potions essay he had been assigned. *Ah, hell. Wouldn't want Father thinking I slacked off just because I was going to kill myself tomorrow.* The best time, he knew, was the early morning. He couldn't do in the castle- it was the easiest way to be caught. Tonight, he was going to the Forbidden Forest and he would take his knife with him.  
  
~*~  
  
In the Gryffindor common room, Harry and Ron argued back and forth over their Divination homework.  
  
"No, the Cannons!"  
  
"Ron, the Bludged Terrors kicked the bloody hell out of the Cannons just last week. How could you think they could possibly beat the Captains?"  
  
"They were just having a bad day!"  
  
"Ron, they've lost every game they've played for the last month."  
  
"No, they beat the Lakers, didn't they?"  
  
"That doesn't count, Ron. The Lakers had never been on brooms before."  
  
Hermione walked in, practically obscured by six editions of Moste Potente Potions. The oldest was on top, and its leather was old and dusty. She set them down with a sigh on the table. Harry pulled futilely at his Divinations homework. "'Mione, they're on top of my homework."  
  
Ron was a bit brighter. "'Mione, what are you doing back? You just left."  
  
She sighed and pulled a wooden chair closer to the table. Sinking onto the cushionless chair, she sounded embarrassed. "I wanted to study up for the potions final."  
  
The two looked at each other and shook their heads. *That's our Hermione.*  
  
Harry tugged at his homework again. Sighing, he picked up the top four books and set them on Ron's side of the table. He tugged his paper from under the remaining two and began writing predictions of his own death for the month of January.  
  
Ron glared at his best friend. "What the hell was that for?"  
  
Hermione settled the dispute by sniffing disdainfully at the homework and lifting the books into one large pile on a nearby and rather fragile- seeming coffee table. It squeaked nervously under the load. She dug out a roll of parchment, a quill, and ink, and began covering the one with the other without even looking at the books.  
  
Ron rolled his eyes. "Cannons."  
  
"Terrors."  
  
"Canons."  
  
"Tenors."  
  
~*~  
  
In the early hours of the morning, Dumbledore and Snape looked worriedly at each other. Hagrid had dragged a reluctant Draco into the Headmaster's office, and a and decidedly deadly knife sat on the table. Hagrid was still reprimanding the boy.  
  
"There be creatures in that forest, master Malfoy, that could rip you to pieces and not stop to chew."  
  
The pureblood just sat with distaste in a comfortable red chair. "What, like your dragons?"  
  
Hagrid colored. "There be centaurs, and skrewts, and the spiders..."  
  
Dumbledore waved a hand at the large man. "Thank you, Hagrid. You should get some sleep if you're to teach tomorrow."  
  
Hagrid scratched his bushy black hair. "Aye, Headmaster, I will." He stopped just inside the doorway and pointed an angry finger at the young man. "And if I ever catch _you_ outside again..."  
  
Draco yawned at the half-giant's retreating back. "He wouldn't hurt a fly."  
  
"Much less you."  
  
Draco ignored that and turned to Snape. "Sir, I understand why, as my Head of house, you're here, but I had an agreement with the headmaster-"  
  
Snape trained a glare on the headmaster that made Fawkes squawk. "I've been informed."  
  
Draco stood, outraged. "You _told!?_"  
  
Dumbledore polished his glasses.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
A/N: Because this needs explanation. I'm sorry for my infrequent updates, my unsatisfactory apologies, and for not posting the last three chapters of Anaheit. I'm just not depressed enough. The next chapter is written in my head and on paper... in extremely different versions... opinions welcome.  
  
REVIEW!!! I'll review you back, I promise. 


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